


Safe Haven

by JAMoczo



Series: Prodigal Son [2]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-21 19:16:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/903877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JAMoczo/pseuds/JAMoczo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A remix of Prodigal Son: January 1945; Aziraphale has a crisis of Faith.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe Haven

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Prodigal Son](https://archiveofourown.org/works/903883) by [JAMoczo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JAMoczo/pseuds/JAMoczo). 



> It was requested that I remix Prodigal Son to show what Aziraphale was thinking, so I did.
> 
> Also of historical note is that a certain Angel of Death alluded to here was fascinated with eyes... and found mysteriously drowned many years later...
> 
> And the original kink meme request was for Aziraphale/Crowley hurt/comfort fic.

Categories: [Slash Fanfic](browse.php?type=categories&catid=3) Characters:  Aziraphale, Crowley  
Genres:  Angst, Romance  
Warnings:  Adult Situations, Slash (explicit)

Published: 20 Sep 2009

  
_**20 Oktober 1944** _

_... One of the guards has mentioned there is a prisoner who could be of interest to me. He has never been seen consuming food, and theory holds that he never sleeps. The guard also mentioned that he, despite the grime, seems to have an ethereal glow about him. None of this would have garnered my attention if it weren't for the allegation that this prisoner heals any wounds he suffers. If this is true... Well, I shall find out for myself..._

_**21 Oktober 1944** _

_...The prisoner has been located and brought here, and he is off-putting. I think it is the eyes - a glorious shade of blue as such I have never seen in my time. I cut him, and he healed, and yet I was given an odd sense that I had done something terribly wrong. He has been placed under observation to see if he will eat or sleep now; he has yet to do either. Intriguing. If I can but find the genes that give him those eyes!..._

_**25 Oktober 1944** _

_... Most peculiar thing happened today. While testing the limits of the ethereal prisoner's healing abilities (and there are none, it seems!) he began to speak in Latin. "Sanctus Deus, Sanctus Fortis, Sanctus Immortalis, miserere nobis et totius mundi." "Holy God, Holy Mighty One, Holy Immortal One, have mercy on us and the whole world.? How odd. I have begun to call him "mein Engel," for while he is not the only one to invoke the name of a god, he is the first to make me feel an emotion I believe might be guilt..._

_**15 November 1944** _

_...Mein Engel is very frustrating to me. He has yet to eat, he has lost consciousness but never voluntarily and never for long (he does not sleep), and no matter how much damage I inflict he can repair it on himself. And all the while he gazes at me with those sorrowful eyes. I ripped them out to see about isolating the gene, but somehow they came back to him. So many questions he raises in me - his eyes are unnatural, his self-healing is aberrant, his survival skills are inhuman - but no answers. He will not voluntarily provide them, either. I begin to wonder if I can kill him; no, I must ignore these thoughts, for the end of him is the end of any hope of using him for the betterment of Deutschland._

_I know I should report him. I know I should. But whenever I try to, I get this sense that doing so would be very, very wrong. Besides, he is but a freak of nature, why trouble anyone else with him. Hmm. My thoughts are befuddled. I wonder why this is. (Could it be him? No, utter nonsense.)_

_**20 Januar 1945** _

_A retreat has been ordered - the Reds are coming too quickly to destroy the prisoners. Most depressing to me, however, is mein Engel is not well enough to make the march to Loslau. My last treatment he has not been able to shake off as he has the others; his eyes and skin have dulled as well. Despite myself I feel regret at leaving him behind. A great evil is coming for him, I can feel it._

\- - -

He should feel relief. All of the staff and over half of the prisoners have left. He should feel grateful. He feels nothing - not relief, not gratefulness, and certainly not the burns, half-healed gashes and infections that cover his body. Instead he is merely one of seven thousand people left behind, all waiting for "rescue." He doesn't even feel connected to the lost souls around him; he is numb.

The Soviets "liberate" the camp, although there is little to liberate and he no longer cares. He can feel the stare of one of the Soviet soldiers, can almost place a voice that seems to be saying something that might be his name, there is contact and his wounds heal, and that can only mean -

A pair of surprised, hurt and scared snake eyes is all he sees as he succumbs to relief.

\- - -

The first thing Aziraphale is aware of is being cocooned in warm silk; it's more of a pleasant stimulus than he's felt in years and he has to throw off the sheets because he can't handle the softness. The room he is in is dark and cool, but what asserts itself in Aziraphale's mind that he is no longer... there... is the smell - a soft, understated vanilla that he wouldn't even notice if it wasn't distinctly different from -

_\- from -_

_\- charred corpses, smoke and ash and burned hair -_

_\- human suffering - he can smell it feel it on his skin taste it -_

Aziraphale hasn't eaten in years, literally, so he only retches up bile and acid into the toilet. He's never vomited before, and it hurts. He struggles to catch his breath as his body trembles violently.

Only now, as he stares at the toilet (pristine and white; it seems almost familiar), does he wonder where he is.

Did he finally die?

No, no, he'd recognize where he is if he had died. He forces himself beyond the numbness, the convulsions, to try to remember where...

He smiles for the first time in years. It's not that he can remember very much, but that there's only one place he can be.

He pushes himself up and exits the bathroom, back to the bedroom with its too-large bed, and notices a cerulean silk bathrobe spread out for him. His smile can't help but broaden as he puts it on to cover his nude form.

Crowley is lounging on the couch, sunglasses on so Aziraphale can't tell where he's looking or if his eyes are even open. The demon's head then moves to face him.

"Good morning, my dear," let's pretend everything is all right now, that's it, "Might I have some tea, please?" He even manages to smile.

Crowley snorts, gesturing to the kitchenette. "Sure."

\- - -

Aziraphale stays for the rest of that day - it would seem rude to leave without properly thanking Crowley for, for rescuing him. He stays the next day as well, because he simply forgets to thank him again. Granted, it was hard to bring up such a thing in pleasant conversation, especially since Crowley doesn't speak much anyway which would make it exceptionally awkward, and really it would be best for him to wait for a proper time to broach the subject. Yes.

\- - -

Days turn to weeks.

As he sits on Crowley's couch and sips his tea a week in, he has to admit that it is awfully comfortable in Crowley's flat, with its white decor and overly-plush furniture, and besides, his shop is probably a fright after years of lack of entry and...

Aziraphale doesn't want to go back, not to his shop and not to Heaven. He had been abandoned, saved by a demon, how could He do this to him? He knows the path he is on now will lead to his eventual Fall; denial of Heaven, refusal to forgive, these are all Unpardonable Sins. But he can't bring himself to care.

Thoughts of the shop hurt his chest.  Thoughts of the normalcy he had before Berlin hurt his head.  Thoughts of God hurt his soul.

\- - -

Weeks to months.

He continues to wait for Crowley to evict him. Every morning he reads the paper filled with dread that today will be the day; every afternoon he waits, tense, as Crowley awakens and makes a beeline to the coffee pot; every evening he is still amazed to be sitting on the couch next to him. He does his best to be unobtrusive and non-confrontational; he finds the very real possibility of being forced out of Crowley's flat as painful as the very real possibility of being forced out of Heaven.

He is in a truly impossible position. He can't Fall. He can't leave.

During the sixth month of Aziraphale's stay, Crowley brings back two large potted plants. In a gruff tone, he asserts that he had always wanted plants to liven his flat up but never wanted to bother with the actual care. He tells Aziraphale to figure out how to be useful from this cryptic information.

And Aziraphale smiles.

May God forgive him.

Although, right now, he finds the thought of lack of forgiveness isn't so bad.

\- - -

Months to years.

Aziraphale can't help but smile as he picks off a petal that has turned a sickly brown. "There you go," he whispers - Crowley is napping and he is simply a beast when woken up - "I know it hurts, but you'll be better for it." The hydrangea, a newer addition to his family of houseplants, is positively glowing as Aziraphale lightly touches the stem. It forgives him.

There is a knock on the door and Aziraphale is startled from his green-thumbed procedures. He looks to the bedroom and wishes Crowley would hear the noise and wake up, but even as he hopes for that he knows it won't happen.

"Don't be silly," he tells himself, walking across the flat to open the door.

A young girl, early teenager by the look of her, stands in the doorway, looking up at him cheerfully. "Hi sir," she says with a smile, "my school is having a fundraiser and we need-"

_"HILFE!" she screams as she is dragged away. She fights the guard as best she can, which is, suffice to say, not at all. "BITTE," please "HERR-"_

_Aziraphale watches her, helpless, and **prays.**_

_The guard, annoyed, pulls out his gun and -_

"Aziraphale! Snap out of it!"

_\- the blood is everywhere - it wasn't what he meant! It wasn't -_

_\- there isn't -_

_\- He isn't -_

There is a force, and then there is blackness.

\- - -

Aziraphale comes to in Crowley's bed, covered in a sheen of sweat and cuddling with a demon. And nude. Oh. And so is the demon. Oh.

They didn't... Did they? Aziraphale takes inventory of his body - no aching, no bodily fluids. It doesn't seem like it...

Crowley is pressed against him from behind, arms wrapped around his torso and one leg draped over his hip. "Go back to sleep," he mumbles against Aziraphale's hair.

Aziraphale opens his mouth to speak, to protest the impropriety of it all (really, is being naked a necessity? But this is Crowley, of course it is), but then remembers what happened, his panic, and says nothing.

He says nothing the next day either.

He can see concern in Crowley's visage. Aziraphale had managed to be rather superficially effusive throughout the last two years, but now all small talk sounds hollow to him. Every time he opens his mouth, he hears the silence of those who can no longer speak.

It is clear Crowley has no idea how to act anymore, so he simply acts as if things are normal. Aziraphale is thankful more than words can express that there isn't going to be an inquisition. It is, ironically, this sense of gratefulness that leads to the feeling of comfort and stability returning to him.

Three weeks after the incident, Aziraphale asks for tea. And this time it is Crowley who smiles.

\- - -

"How can you judge sleeping if you've never even tried it?" Crowley asks one evening, having just announced his intentions to go back to bed.

"Because you woke up less than six hours ago." Saying evil never sleeps seems so wrong to him now.

"But sleeping is fun. It's soothing, and sometimes you get very peculiar dreams, and it's warm and cozy and dark. I think you'd like it. You should try it."

"You only have one bed."

Crowley's eyebrows furrow, like he only just realized that fact. "Well, I can sleep on the couch. It'd be your first time and all, and it should be in a bed."

"Nonsense, my dear. It's your bed; you ought to be the one sleeping in it."

Crowley's face twists in thought. "We could share it," he offers slowly, as if he can?t believe the words coming out of his mouth, "But if you end up kicking me, or hogging all the blankets, you get the couch."

"All right," the angel replies also slowly, "we'll share it."

Aziraphale is astounded at how pleasant that sounds.

\- - -

And at how pleasant it feels. It turns out Crowley is quite the cuddler when he doesn't intend to be. Aziraphale is awoken two nights later by a strange sort of sound that sounds like a 'snurfle,' and it turns out to be an asleep Crowley murmuring in his ear as he gets more comfortable. Again Aziraphale finds himself being wrapped around by a demon (and really, Crowley is still quite the Serpent, the way he's sinuously situated himself around Aziraphale), but this time, instead of allowing it to perplex him, to bother him, he allows himself to sink back into the unwitting embrace, stealing this moment.

He is not thinking that he is an angel and Crowley is a demon, or that they are not close enough to snuggle like lovers, or even that Crowley is on Aziraphale's half of the bed. He is thinking that it is warm, and he feels so, so safe, and maybe he ought to do this more often.

\- - -

Today's creation is a chocolate and vanilla pudding pie. Aziraphale adds some chocolate shavings for garnish and smiles at this latest job well done. Crowley has been quite the sport regarding eating Aziraphale's cooking, especially the desserts, and the angel hopes his roommate likes this newest attempt.

He looks up and all pleasant thoughts disappear.

There is a bright blue light shining in from the ceiling.

_There is a bright blue light shining in from the ceiling._

He tries to think over the beat of his unnecessary heart but all that comes is _They found me They found me They found me They found me_

Slowly his mind organizes itself and he remembers that they can neither see nor hear him unless he steps into the light, so he slowly walks around it and locks himself in the bedroom, huddles underneath the covers of the bed, and prays to no one that they leave him alone.

\- - -

Aziraphale is ashamed of how terrified he is now that he's left Crowley's flat for the first time in five years. Crowley had to order for him and is constantly refilling his wine glass because Aziraphale is constantly drinking from it.

"Go on and eat," Crowley says soothingly, their hands still joined on the table, and Aziraphale feels this odd lull come over him. With his free hand, he pokes around the steak dish half-heartedly; he is far too anxious to eat.

"You don't..." he ventures softly, looking up for reassurance. He'd just told a demon that he felt God had abandoned him. He had never mentioned this to Crowley because Crowley had been utterly abandoned; that was the whole point. It seems almost cruel to be depressed about this now, with him here.

And yet Crowley continues to hold his hand. "You're fine," he grumbles, "Believe me." His thumb is gently rubbing Aziraphale's palm and the angel tingles at the contact. "I understand. Just eat, all right?"

"Crowley?" he whispers softly, not eating.

"Yeah. Go on then." But he doesn't let go.

Aziraphale smiles and nibbles, for him.

\- - -

Aziraphale can't stop trembling despite himself, but each little tremor reminds him anew of what they just did.

Crowley lazily nips his ear and nestles in on top of him. "Been wanting to do that for a long time," he murmurs.

Aziraphale smiles as much as he can, and he assumes he has a goofy satisfied grin on his face but can't bring himself to be embarrassed of it. "If only I'd known," he whispers back, delighting in the feel of Crowley resting on top of him, of the demon's chest pressed to his back, "If only. I love you."

Crowley mumbles something back and drifts off to sleep.

Aziraphale has never been so happy in his entire existence.

\- - -

Aziraphale is an angel. He is a being solely designed to spread love to everyone, to comfort and heal anyone he can. It is a selfless love, the love of the Lord, and it makes him focus on the happiness of those he is with. What he is feeling now is unlike anything he has ever experienced; it is not the love of the Lord flowing through him, it is purely and unequivocally the love of Aziraphale himself. It is all-consuming, passionate, loving, and it is focused on pleasing Crowley.

Crowley is a demon. He is a being solely designed to spread misery to others in order to bring pleasure to himself. He is selfish, greedy, possessive, an embodiment of the Seven Deadly Sins. He has given himself fully to Avarice and Pride, twisting it in his own human-tainted way; it is his utmost desire that Aziraphale desire nothing but him, need nothing but him. Crowley wants to own Aziraphale mind, body and soul; the way that Aziraphale owns him.

Crowley loves to the point of stifling.

It is something that makes sense to Aziraphale the more he thinks on it. It is almost as if six thousand years' worth of a lack of affection for anything has bubbled up inside Crowley and is all focused entirely on Aziraphale. When they are not exploring each other they are almost certainly touching, and Aziraphale can't decide whether he prefers making love and the slow, satisfied kisses that come after or being fully clothed with a fully-clothed Crowley curled up around him, both wrapped in blankets and simply basking in each other's presence. He gets both.

It is a cold day, and Aziraphale is lying on his stomach on Crowley's couch, and Crowley is lying on top of him, nuzzling the back of his neck. They are wrapped in warm blankets and each other, and Aziraphale is happy. He is truly happy. He needs nothing other than this.

He's utterly convinced himself of this. There is nothing more. He vaguely wonders if what he knew before was Heaven, or if this is truly it.

\- - -

Crowley wraps his arms around Aziraphale's waist, both hands resting on the buttons of his trousers as he peppers the back of his neck with kisses. "I'm trying to cook dinner," Aziraphale says patiently with a smile as Crowley begins unbuttoning.

"Not hungry," Crowley murmurs back, sliding one hand down Aziraphale's open trousers. Aziraphale fully intends on not giving him the satisfaction of a gasp, but it leaves his mouth regardless. "You know," Crowley purrs in his ear as his hand starts up a slow, steady rhythm, "we tried something before that I think you quite liked." Crowley licks the rim of his ear and whispers, "Turns out I liked it too."

Aziraphale had no idea he would ever have satyriasis, but it is almost shamefully easy for Crowley to maneuver him on his back onto the floor. The demon has a predatory smirk on his handsome face as he straddles Aziraphale's hips, pinning his hands at his sides with his knees. Crowley begins running his fingertips over Aziraphale's chest, neck and face before sliding one hand into his hair, running his fingers through the long, unkempt curls.

The angel's entire body tenses in anticipation. He's almost certain he knows what Crowley was talking about.

Still, the feeling of Crowley's fingers finding and stroking his halo is almost too much for him to handle. Aziraphale's fingers try to clench involuntarily but they're still being pinned. He bites his lower lip and whines as Crowley explores every inch of his most angelic attribute.

"Mmm, you like that don't you," Crowley whispers.

It's beyond mere liking, or loving; it is beyond anything words can describe. It is the love of his life coaxing and pleasing his very essence; it is utter and absolute ecstasy, a pleasure of the soul. And Crowley knows it, leaning forward and beginning to run his tongue over the aura around Aziraphale's head while both hands run gentle fingers over the edges. Aziraphale is not coherent enough to ask if a demon is comfortable with pleasuring an angel's halo, nor is he able to somehow launch a counterattack. He would be ashamed to know he's writhing, pressing his hips up, whimpering incoherently mixed with soft begging for _more, yes, please, Crowley, love._

And when he can't handle it anymore and his human body climaxes, and Crowley holds him and nuzzles him and kisses him, he begins to admit that he doesn't deserve any of this.

\- - -

Crowley is gone again and he is alone again, curled up on the toilet in the bathroom and staring at himself in the mirror.

The halo is still present. His wings are still white. If physical appearances are to be believed, then he is still an angel. But he hasn't been to Heaven in years and has no desire to return. Everything he wants was in this flat and will be returning soon. But there is a growing fear inside of him; despite everything, he doesn't want to Fall. Crowley could take care of him should that happen, but hasn't he done enough already? It's not fair to him...

None of this is fair to him. Crowley never asked for a roommate. Crowley never asked for a nearly-Fallen angel living in his flat that never leaves and is too afraid to be alone and-

He shivers and wraps the blanket he brought with him around him further. These thoughts always plague him without Crowley to distract him. Is that what Crowley is to him, then? A distraction?

_No, no he's everything!_

He can hear the door to the flat open and tightens automatically, remembering a time five years ago when he had smiled at intruders and let himself be taken. Not this time; never again, not for -

Then he senses Crowley's aura and sprints out of the bathroom.

\- - -

"You need to talk to God."

Oh, how Aziraphale never wanted to hear those words coming from the one person he trusted. He couldn't help but feel betrayed. Wasn't Crowley happy with him here? Of course not, how could he be? Aziraphale is an imposition. A disturbance. Love or not, and Crowley has never once said the word, Aziraphale is still an inconvenience. Of course he is. Why else would a demon try to reunite an angel with God?

The words have been said. And, mixed in with the hurt, Aziraphale realizes the words are right.

\- - -

_**Aziraphael My Child, it has been some time since you last joined with the Presence.** _

_Forgive me Father for I have sinned -_

_**Shh, precious one.** _

_Fa-Father? I have avoided You, avoided Heaven, sought refuge with another, hidden in terror I ought not to have felt, inconvenienced him so much... He told me to talk to You; a demon told me to speak to God. How can I be forgiven for these trespasses against You?_

_**Oh Aziraphael. Your Purpose on Earth is a great one, and your pain even more so. It grieves me when Humanity hurts each other, but more so when My Heavenly Children are caught in the crossfire. You have not sinned. You did great good.** _

(Aziraphale doesn't know it, but there are tears dripping down his cheeks.)

_**But it is time for you to stand on your own again, My Child. I will be with you, and you will be stronger.** _

_And Crowley?_

_**You must stand on your own. But his diligence will be rewarded in time.** _

\- - -

A plethora of scents assault him when he enters his shop for the first time in years. The strongest scent is decaying books, and Aziraphale gasps in horror and begins to fix things up.

Crowley deposits a single plant on Aziraphale's dust-covered desk. The demon's face is utterly stoic, the eye coverings pressed up as close to his eyes as possible.

_IlovehimIlovehimIlovehimIlovehim_

_It'sforthebestImuststandonmyownI'manimpositionheneedsmegone_

"Thank you," Aziraphale whispers with a fake smile. He doesn't mean for the plant.

Crowley simply nods and leaves.

The plant glows faintly with holy light. Aziraphale gives a sad smile and fully returns to his life.

 

  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://library.good-omens.net/viewstory.php?sid=450>


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